The soon heart
by planet p
Summary: AU; mainly about William.


**The s****oon heart** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender_ or any of its characters.

**Author's Notes** I guess I took a funny, or rather odd turn, when I wrote this – a little bit aimless – I was in a funny sort of mood, which, I think, is reflected adequately in the title. William's POV, for those who might otherwise be left wondering.

* * *

_2009_

If there is one thing that can make him sick to his stomach, it is a seminar. Four more hours of this, it is near unthinkable! Four more hours of being talked at and computer-generated slideshows – PowerPoint Presentations, he has heard they are called these days – with words like 'team participation,' 'communication,' 'feedback,' 'networking,' and 'follow up;' foolish acronyms, and silly questions.

He remembers what seminars – conferences – used to be like, and it is nothing like this one! He remembers that the speaker, or speakers, used to know what they were talking about – beyond what they'd read in a book, or a report in a journal, beyond the time they'd spent, frustrated and holed up, in a library. That is used to be a discussion. That answers were given, instead of the nervous utter of, "I'll get back to you."

The tea – or coffee, or orange juice – and biscuits is no longer a reason to congregate and chat, to discuss, but instead a reason to separate, and make a mad dash for the last 'good' biscuit, or the last unused wooden popsicle stick, stand-in for a teaspoon.

The talk – there will always be talk, of course – is of escape, of 'after.'

The words 'volunteer' and 'member of the audience' – or 'members of the audience' – send an invisible flinch – cringe – through the seater listeners, in the light of which, he finds himself standing. Soon, it must be soon now, and it will be over and done with!

He is the one volunteering, he realises suddenly, and attributes it to a rare turn of sympathy for the speaker. He has been there. He never once asked for volunteers.

There are the inevitable questions, the inevitable answers, and lies. But not such an ordeal, he thinks, as he is reseating himself, except that now everyone knows. Soon, he promises himself again.

Isn't it always soon?

And mercifully, swiftly, the end is within sight. Soon is drawing nearer, and nearer still, until the end is upon them: the main speaker, the guest speakers, the audience – of which he is a part of – and the obligatory, expected round of applause.

For what, he wonders, an end to the suffering; the humdrum, the sheer painful monotony, the tired, unenthusiastic voices that had melted, moments before, hours before, one into the other, and only now, frazzled, but half-awake, showing some sign of recovery, some sign of brightening from the stifling blanket of bleakness?

The sound hurts his ears, the clapping hurts his hands. He is too old for children's games – and these are children's games! He claps anyway, for a brief moment.

He wonders of the tea and biscuits: Would there be tea and biscuits at the end? Refreshments, as Bobby would call them, waiting for them to enjoy, partake, before they leave, depart for the 'after'?

He rises with the others, supposes he could have remained seated until the others had left, but decides to stand, stretch his legs, and, as he draws nearer the refreshment tables, sees that nothing has changed since the last time he – and everyone else – set eyes upon them: the same unwanted or soggy biscuits, the same stains upon the white tablecloths – to hide the stains, the scuffs, and pits, and graffiti scarring the tabletops, rather than a relic of the past, of an older, more sophisticated, time – the same ill-sized foam cups, barely warranting of a cup at all.

In droves, out come the cell phones, which they'd earlier been asked – instructed – to turn off, or turn to silent – as though he'd know what that meant – this is their new fangled idea of sophistication, the height of technical popularity, to be seen to have what others had, or wanted.

Gone are the days of manners, of etiquette, or obligation.

The words have changed, and, as he remembers them, they are changing still, mutating, evolving, if one is to believe in such as thing; there is argument, he knows, argument and legal action and law suits, and, in the midst of all this 'sophistication,' there are children, there are always children, school children, young minds. But they are not opening up, they are closing down.

He struggles to remember the way to where he parked his car, to the parking space in which sits his car, as much as a car can sit, though it is the same parking space he has had for four years – since the parking lot was refurbished – and the same car he has had for ten years, though cars, he reflects, are not what they used to be, what they had been, and he is in need of a replacement.

Here, where he has parked his car, is a title – his own title, no name – indicating for whom the parking space is reserved.

_DIRECTOR_

_MED SPACE_

reads the title, in block letters, as though someone had hit Caps Lock on a keyboard, when deciding what to write, but had forgotten the _of_.

But who uses _of_ these days? he thinks. Who nowadays bothers with the old conventions? It is no longer U of D, or UoD, but UD.

He watches people, cell phones in hand, hand raised to ear, pass through the doors like a human stream, but, unlike water, there is no grace.

Sometimes, he misses that grace. But then, in that sense, grace is no longer another word for cooperation, because the word has changed again – ever-changing – now grace means follow-the-leader, as though it were a child's game, now grace means conformity, and conformity is fear, fear of the bigger person, or the bigger power, or fear of ostracism, fear of the big, bad need-to-be-seen that is so bad, but that everyone does anyway.

If there is no other available option, is that the same a condonation, he wonders, because who is to say there is no alternative, no other option? Who is to say, it shouldn't be him, who, seeing the wrongs of the world, of this society, should strike out, and create what is needed – that suddenly available option.

It will always be that way, he thinks. But when will that option be available?

When the tide is flowing away, will one suddenly turn and say, "Hey, I think I can do this! I think I can be different!" and then follow through, and then be different? And then, will others turn too, will they turn in support, or in anger? Or will they continue to move away, move in the opposite direction in unknowing ignorance, or deliberate ignorance?

Will they condone action against that one, for the 'good' of the others, of the 'all'? Will they even care, or care to investigate? What is he/she on about? Is it better for me, for us? Or is it worse?

Or will they go-with-the-flow? And then, what of that other option, suddenly no longer an option, and they all say, if only there _were_ _another_ option?

_It is this damn age_, he thinks, for lack of other options to blame it – whatever _it_ may be – upon. There are many, many others, but he is tired, and, he realises, not a child, and it would be childish to blame: the council, the politicians, the neighbour, the law enforcement, the education system, the cashier – whatever it is unhappy people blame – whether there be merit in _part_ of it or not. So why not blame old age, because old age cannot sue you!

Finally, the stream of people dwindles, and he sees, in the near future, an opening, a hint of an opening, that he might make it to that parking lot, and suddenly be presented with remembering the location of that reserved parking space where it is the vehicle that is his means of returning home is parked.

_Soon_, he reminds himself, and feels a brightening of dull things, not a huge brightening, not a memorable brightening – Home, is that much better? Is that any better? Than here? Than now? – but a small, momentary brightening. It could be a small happy thing, if he were of the frame of mind.

If only he were. But that frame of mind seems, lately, to be escaping him more and more, to merely be – not there!

And there, by the door, curiously, though, somewhere, he expected it, is Sydney. Waiting, like him, for the masses to depart? Or waiting for him?

And soon they are talking, of new things, of things yet to come – who knows if they will ever come, but they are talking of them, of mere possibility, oh what a word – of things that have been and passed, old things, and remembered things, and remembering forgotten things.

And soon is running away from them.

The large, but far-too-small room is almost empty now, save for themselves, and one other person, whom he holds the door open for, but does not receive anything in return for, and he nods for Sydney to go through the door before him, and they walk through the corridor toward the reception area at the front of the building, toward the exit, the parking lot, and he complains of the small size of the print that was used for the seminar programme that he was handed at the door upon entry.

Of course, no one should have to risk damaging their eyesight irrevocably for that!

But Sydney has reading glasses.

But he does not like glasses, does not like the idea, or the notion. It is not that they would make him look old, dated, he maintains, but that they would just be too much of a bother, he would forget them, and have to rush back for them, or they would look plain daft, imagine, they would conjure thoughts of incompetency among the younger – junior, or superior – members of staff, plain daft to be attracting that sort of attention, that sort of sentiment that way.

To which Sydney smiles, of course.

Sydney smiles to a lot of things he says, he realises.

Almost as much as the looks of loathing, or disagreement, or disquiet, or upset.

He does prefer the smiles, though, he concedes.

And he does much prefer when they can talk, just like this, of inconsequential matters, of things that do not, in the grand scheme of things, really matter.

And Sydney, of course, remembers where it is he has parked his car – the same place he has parked it for the last four years – because those are the sorts of things Sydney remembers, and they walk to his car, Sydney without complaint, though they have already passed his own car, and continue talking as they do, until he has reached his car, and it is time to leave, and Sydney nods again, as he did at the door – a silent thank you – but this time it has taken on a new meaning, simply that it means, until tomorrow, or until next time.

And, perhaps, next time, he will not feel so sick at the thought of another next time, because it would be an excuse to talk – tidy and unassuming – just to talk.

It does not seem to matter what they talk about, though it is usually small things, and strangely, more often than not, small personal things, such as an opinion on a matter of small relevance.

_A strange thing_, he thinks, as he reverses the car out of the parking space and heads for home, that such talk is ordinarily impermissible, because, after all, in the grand scheme of things, they must be considered enemies.

But, just for a moment, they hadn't been.

Just for a moment, until next time.

And, oh, the lengths these things drag on, he thinks morosely, waiting at the traffic lights – the time – and smiles a little.

Home, he thinks, but home is no longer home. There is no one home, until he returns there himself, and then he is home, but he is the only one home. And that, to his mind, is not home.

His son, Sam, has another home now, and it would be impolite to intrude upon that without advanced warning, without a phone call, or an e-mail, or a word over lunch… a day, a few days, or a week ago.

It is a little bit like home, he thinks, of the talk he has just shared. As odd as it is, because home as always been about more than himself, about taking, but giving too, about the exchange.

And it is not home he is returning to, just old memories that sometimes make him to get away, to stay too late at work, or arrive too early.

Once, those old memories had been home.

But now, he thinks, they are a home to his old age, but not to a person, not to him.

_A person should be happy at home_, he thinks. Even when he was unhappy, he was more happy than he is now. He did not see it then, but he sees it clearly now.

The traffic lights change to green, and the car moves off, but he isn't going home, not really.

_Perhaps_, he thinks, _I will sell the old house_, as though he can convince himself, with those few, practical words – there are far too many rooms now for just one person – that it will hurt less.

It is odd, he thinks, that something should hurt him now. And, oh, the something – of all things! But things have always hurt, he concedes, the possibility, at least, it is just that he chose, upon those points in time, to overlook the feelings.

Oh, but what sort of a person would feel so much over such an inconsequential thing, but so little for something of such great importance, of such great value, as his work at the Center commanded?

Over the lives of others! And deaths!

It is only a house!

Not even any longer a home!

So, he decides, _I will sell it_, and what can he do, but carry through on this decision, because, he has decided, he is no longer a child, and it would be a child's game to play at feelings when there were none, and to deny them when there was.

He will be seventy soon, and this is not a child.

And perhaps the old house could become a home again. Perhaps, it would be given a new life, the chance to start over again – and that would be better than most, certainly better than him.

And, strangely, it is brightening to think of the old thing, the old house's new life, at least, for a few brief moments, like the few brief moments of shared conversation, or unhateful talk, and in the album of his life, he thinks, those briefs moments are like stars in the sky at night, like pages in a book.

And though the stars may be hard to see at times, or his eyes may blur upon the words, like the memories of home, they will always be there, in his heart – the biggest part of his heart – which he may choose, at times, to pretend he does not have, to play at ignorance, but for the faint glimmer of starlight upon his eyes, or is that the strain of small, faded print in a book of many pages?

* * *

_Do review if you feel up to it. That would, I daresay, be suitably lovely. And, if interested, please take a look at my profile page and perhaps vote in my latest poll – that would be twice as lovely._

_A__s always, thank you for reading, and excuse my oddness._

_Now, do tell me honestly, it felt as though there was some shifting of tenses? It wasn't merely my imagination, I am sure. Is that the feeling you got too? I'm really rather used to writing in third person, past tense, to be honest. Hmm…_


End file.
